


Epilogue

by Josselin



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Kings Rising Spoilers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:43:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5888128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josselin/pseuds/Josselin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Kings Rising epilogue in which Damen recovers from his injury and Laurent decides to work on his alcohol tolerance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epilogue

Laurent did eventually unchain him.

The first days after Kastor’s death were a chaos of Paschal tending his wound while Nikandros attempted to ask him complex political questions about the running of the kingdom. Laurent appeared every so often to shoo off Nikandros, but Laurent himself looked tired and harassed, spending much of his time with Vannes and with the council on all of the matters pressing for his attention.

The council wanted Laurent to leave Ios and attend to business in Arles, which Damen understood Laurent was refusing to do, and inferred that this was because Damen himself was in no position to travel yet.

Then, within a matter of days, Laurent had arranged an actual coronation, complete with traditional Veretian ceremony. It was not held in the Kingsmeet, as would have been Akielon tradition, but in the market square in Ios, where all of the commoners could come to see the golden prince become the golden king. 

Damen attended. Paschal refused to let him walk, yet, despite Damen’s argument that there was nothing wrong with his legs because he had been stabbed in the stomach. But whenever Damen thought of disobeying Paschal, Laurent seemed to appear with a crease in his forehead, and so Damen attended Laurent’s coronation borne by servants on a litter.

He felt ridiculous; it was ridiculous. Litters were for pampered Veretian pets who could only lift a fan to shade themselves from the sun. He was the king; he was expected to lead his people in stamina and endurance, not be carried in front of them. But Laurent insisted, and Damen began to see the pattern as it would unfold for their future, and the people lining the market and the alleys greeted him on his litter nearly as warmly as they cheered for Laurent during the procession.

Damen’s litter and Laurent’s procession culminated at a wooden podium erected in the middle of the market square. There were hastily-erected wooden pillars surrounding the podium, and to give the construction an element of decor and Veretian finery, they were draped with twelve bolts of velvet fabric purchased from no one other than Charls the renowned cloth merchant. 

Laurent waved to the crowds, when he reached the top of the podium, and the cheers of the assembled people grew louder. Then Laurent stepped closer to Damen’s litter, and leaned in. He was close enough that when he spoke his voice was pitched only for the space between the two of them. 

“This reminds me of when you were my slave,” Laurent said, gesturing at the finery of the litter and bestowing upon Damen a small private smile. 

“I am still your slave, Laurent,” Damen said, and he felt that, profoundly, even when Herode handed him the enormous golden crown and Damen placed it upon the top of Laurent’s golden hair.

After the coronation, it seemed that Laurent was determined to fill Damen’s sickroom with entertainments. Damen was amused one day by a juggler wearing a strange hat with bells on the points, and then another day by a brown-haired slave from Dice who played the kithara. The room itself was spacious, with a low bed with a stone frame and windows thrown open with a view of the cliffs, but Damen still felt confined and trapped.

Damen told Paschal that he was feeling much recovered, and that Damen really thought the best thing would be some exercise. A walk in the gardens, perhaps, or a gentle ride outside of the palace walls. Paschal insisted Damen needed to rest, and apply the scented salve, despite Damen’s protests that he was fine and that the shallow wound in his abdomen had affected neither his head nor his legs.

When Laurent arrived that evening, Damen had been freshly bandaged and was smelling of cinnamon. 

“What sort of entertainment is it to be tonight?” Damen said. “A jester? Mime?”

Laurent wordlessly held up a wine bottle.

Laurent crossed the room and settled himself down on the bed next to where Damen was resting. Laurent was wearing a chiton in deference to the heat, and the bare skin of his arm brushed against Damen’s bicep. The touch seemed warm and yet somehow illicit.

Laurent occupied himself with uncorking the bottle and pouring himself a glass. “Paschal says you are not allowed any.”

Laurent drank his first sip, made an expression that involved wrinkling his nose and pursing his lips, and then determinedly swallowed again. “I need to work on building my tolerance,” he said, holding the goblet delicately between his fine-boned fingers. “But let me be clear before I begin that I expect you to have your way with me tonight.”

They talked, at first, of nothing. Of the look on Charls’s face at the coronation when he was gazing upon his velvet bunting, of Lazar’s smug expression and Pallas’s lovestruck one. They discussed the merits of a capital at Aquitart versus one at Karthas. Laurent remarked upon the white beauty of the cliffs in Ios. Damen told Laurent of Torveld’s letter from Bazal, and their invitation to the wedding of Torgeir’s niece. Laurent criticized the wine as too tannic, asked why all of Damen’s bedding smelled of spices, and opened a second bottle.

They started kissing around the end of the second bottle. Laurent leaned over, almost upended the remaining wine in his glass, and his lips met Damen’s. The kiss was sticky and casual and wonderful. Laurent was loose-limbed and his hair was mussed. _We will kiss like this forever,_ Damen thought, and his heart beat with joy. 

Laurent paused to finish the wine in his goblet, making a face again at the taste, and then he set the goblet off to the side of the bed, where the ornamental foot shaped like a lion’s paw rested against the pink marble of the floor. He moved toward Damen again, and Damen was expecting Laurent to lean in for more of the lazy kissing, but instead, Laurent moved toward his lap.

“I want to suck you,” Laurent said, and the precision of his Veretian words was not congruent with the sleepy way he nuzzled at Damen’s bedclothes. Damen could feel the warmth of Laurent's breath through the linen of his garment.

“No objections.”

Laurent scooted closer to Damen on the bed. Laurent’s arm rested against Damen’s thigh, he could feel the warm gold of Laurent’s cuff against his leg. Laurent seemed distracted from his stated intention by tracing the musculature of Damen’s leg with one finger. 

“You are,” Laurent said, sounding serious. “Very attractive.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“It’s hard to tell,” Laurent said, still staring intently at Damen’s thigh. He ran one of his knuckles along the plane of the muscle. Damen’s thigh twitched involuntarily. It felt as though all of his senses had narrowed to the single patch of skin on which Laurent had focused his attention. His cock throbbed.

“I can tell,” Damen said. “You are.”

“Skirts are convenient,” Laurent said, pushing Damen’s up his thigh toward his waist.

Whatever reply Damen might have made was interrupted by a knock on the door. Nikandros had been in the habit of checking on Damen every evening; Damen opened his mouth to tell Nikandros that he was busy.

“Come in,” Laurent raised his voice to carry beyond the door. 

Nikandros came around the arched doorway. “Damianos--”

Nikandros stopped in the middle of Damen’s sick room. “You’re not alone.”

Damen saw in his head the scene of the bedroom as Nikandros would see it. The two empty bottles on the table beside the bed. Damen relaxed on the bed with his chiton pushed up. Laurent wearing only his loose linen and settled in a sprawl across Damen’s lap with his hair in disarray and his lips red from the wine. Neither of them were wearing any sandals.

Nikandros’s eyes were wide and brown and his mouth was slightly open.

“Well?” said Laurent, his tone as cool as if he were sitting in a council meeting. 

There was a moment of silence. Nikandros took a step backward toward the door. “It can wait.”

“Tomorrow,” said Damen, wondering if the embarrassment he felt showed on his face.

Nikandros nodded, and backed out of the room quickly. Damen could hear him telling the guards that the king was occupied and should not be disturbed.

Laurent’s sobriety and supercilious eyebrow disappeared as the door closed again behind Nikandros. Laurent brushed his own hair away from his face, laughing a bit breathlessly.

“You shouldn’t tease him so,” Damen said.

Laurent generally seemed determined to cause Nikandros to think the worst of him and to speak overly loudly about Nikandros in locations where he knew Nikandros was just within earshot. But Laurent did not engage with Damen. Instead, he laughed lightly, bent down again, and licked a line up Damen’s cock.

Damen took in a sharp breath quickly enough that it caused the bandaged wound in his side to throb, and fisted his hands in the bedding.

“Laurent,” he said helplessly, and his voice had deepened a register.

“I like this,” Laurent said, his voice quiet but deeper also. He applied his mouth sloppily. Damen’s cock rubbed against the side of his cheek and his jaw, and Damen could feel the felt of his fine golden stubble.

There was something about it that still felt illicit and forbidden. That it was somehow impossible that it was actually Laurent here using his mouth. Damen could not even reconcile the cool tone of voice Laurent had used with Nikandros a moment earlier with the soft hum of pleasure Laurent made now as he amused himself.

“You are big when you are roused,” Laurent said, which had a predictable effect on Damen, and then Laurent wrapped his mouth around the head.

Damen groaned. He could see Laurent’s mussed hair in his lap and some of the golden strands fell loose on his stomach, brushing gently as Laurent moved. Damen reached out one of his hands for Laurent, blindly aiming for some portion of Laurent that was not his head. He encountered Laurent’s wrist, and his fingers rested half on the golden cuff and half on Laurent’s forearm. Damen squeezed gently as a sign of affection and connection, and Laurent hummed in response.

When Damen was close, Laurent lifted his head. Damen groaned again.

Damen remembered Laurent’s voice that time in the garden with Ancel. He remembered Laurent telling Ancel to take his time, and to hold off and to draw it out when Damen was coming close to finishing. Laurent had had an elaborate analogy for this about the budding of a flower into the sunlight, which Damen had not been in a position to appreciate at the time Laurent had spoken. 

Yet now it did not seem that Laurent was applying a polished technique from his treatise of advice on cocksucking. Rather, it seemed that he could not focus on his task for more than a few seconds before becoming distracted and laughing to himself or trying to talk to Damen.

“This wine has an unpleasant aftertaste,” Laurent said. Damen closed his eyes for a moment. “I prefered the white.” 

Damen opened his eyes again. Laurent was looking around the room as though there might be another bottle.

Damen squeezed Laurent’s wrist gently. “Laurent,” he said, and his voice sounded wrecked. 

“I like when you say my name,” Laurent said.

“Please,” Damen said, and then he obliged Laurent again with his name. “Laurent.”

Laurent returned his attention to Damen’s lap. His lips were warm and wet. Damen was so close.

Laurent stopped again. “How is your side?”

“Fine,” Damen said. His voice did not sound fine, but his side was the furthest thing from his mind. He needed just, another touch, anything. He felt desperate. He freed his right hand from its grip on the bedclothes and reached to stroke himself.

Laurent made a displeased noise and batted Damen’s hand away. Laurent’s lips were red now from more than just the wine. He looked debauched. Damen half wanted to kiss him, and yet he overwhelmingly wanted Laurent to keep sucking him.

Damen was ready to beg. “Please. Can you.” He moved his head on the pillow helplessly. 

Laurent pushed at one of Damen’s legs, urging Damen to move it so he could have better access, and Damen accommodated. The new position gave Laurent better access with his hands, and he put it to good use, stroking Damen gently where he was not using his mouth.

“Can I touch you,” Damen said, and Laurent made a sound that was not a prohibition, and Damen settled one of his hands gently in Laurent’s hair, careful not to let his hand rest too heavy or to grip too tightly.

Laurent had found Damen’s entrance with one of his hands, and was brushing the pad of his thumb suggestively across it.

“You’ve really never,” said Laurent.

“No,” said Damen. His hand tightened slightly in Laurent’s hair. “Laurent, I’m so--”

Damen could not see Laurent’s face in this position, but the tone of Laurent’s voice was studious and distracted. “You are very tight.” He ran a finger around the circle of Damen’s opening. 

“I watched you with Kashel,” Laurent said, and it was as though he were speaking some foreign language where the words did not make sense. 

“In the hills,” Laurent said. “You used your mouth on her.”

“Please,” Damen said. 

“She liked that,” said Laurent, and Damen realized suddenly where Laurent’s thoughts were leading. 

“Yes,” he said, somehow even more desperate than before. 

“Roll over,” Laurent said.

Damen did. His side protested slightly as he moved, and he knew that likely Paschal would scold him the next day, but nothing could have stopped him in that moment. He braced his weight on his knees and calves and forearms, resting his forehead against the pillow. The bedlinens smelled of cinnamon. 

Damen could feel Laurent’s breath, first, on the most tender part of him. Laurent was taking his time, and Damen was on the cusp of begging. This was something he had never even imagined; it was an act that he had thought only a slave would ever do. He would not have asked; he had not even dreamed. 

“When you are recovered. I will have you,” Laurent said, placing his finger. “Here.”

“Yes,” Damen promised. He was trembling.

Laurent made a satisfied noise, and then finally, Laurent applied his mouth.  
He was tentative, at first, and after a moment he said, “It is good,” in a tone that framed the statement more as a question.

Damen’s reply was half-choked and he had resorted back to Akielon. “Yes, yes,” he said, helplessly pressing his face into the pillow. “Laurent, it’s so good.”

And Laurent resumed, with less hesitancy.

Damen did not last very long. Afterward, Laurent helped him to roll over, gently, clucking over Damen’s bandaged side and checking to make sure that he was not bleeding anew. 

“It’s fine,” Damen brushed his hand away. “I feel wonderful.” He relaxed onto his back and felt his breathing and his pulse slow.

Laurent laughed. It was the point in their encounter where Damen expected him to slip from the bed to find a rag, or to wash, or some other excuse to have a moment of solitude to pull himself together, but Laurent stayed a warm presence next to him on the bed, either because he was increasingly comfortable with Damen’s company, or because he was drunk enough that he did not want to stand. 

The sun had set outside over the water, and the room had gradually darkened with no servants coming in to light candles. Laurent was beautiful in the moonlight. The light gave him something of the look of one of the Artesian marble statues, all pale white skin against the folds of fabric in the bedding. His mouth was a smudge of red. Damen reached out for it, and brushed his thumb over Laurent’s lower lip. 

Damen wanted to kiss him, suddenly. He moved his hand to gently curl around the back of Laurent’s neck, and tugged him closer. Laurent resisted. “But--” he said, and Damen tugged again, and Laurent gave in. 

“Can I do something for you?” said Damen.

“Is there any wine left?” said Laurent.

Damen laughed. “I think you’ve had enough.”

Laurent smiled at him, laughing silently. It was unrestrained and heartbreakingly beautiful. Damen ran a hand through Laurent’s tousled hair and Laurent settled his head down resting on Damen’s shoulder. 

Damen could feel sleep coming to wrap around him like a warm blanket. He could hear Laurent’s easy breathing close by. This was the new kingdom, he thought. His side was almost recovered. Laurent was king. They would form a new hold from the center, and he would have this forever.

**Author's Note:**

> [All of the author's Captive Prince fanfic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Josselin/pseuds/Josselin/works?fandom_id=3516977), [come follow me on tumblr](http://josselinkohl.tumblr.com/)


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